Daliha District, Ishval

Early Fall, 1908

Roy Mustang: Age 23


Like their Holy book said, man turned from ashes to ashes, from dust to dust.

And so another corpse would feed the carrion before it chanced to return any life to the desert ground. Or before there would be anyone to bury it.

Or burn it.

The dying man exhaled that low grunt, something akin to silent surprise, that Roy had heard before. Mostly from sniper victims. He had barely even seen the man rise from the blood-soaked dust before he fell back into the rubble pile from which he had risen.

Roy had been startled, even enough so to yell aloud, at such a near miss with death. But the novelty of fear had long since worn off. After nearly a year in Ishval, the tragedies and horrors had compounded until they were commonplace, until they became like nothing.

Perhaps seeing Hughes had been somewhat of a surprise. But seeing the deadened killer's glare in his friend's eyes offered none. Everyone's eyes had grown numb in the desert.

"So what about you? Do you have a cheerful story or two to tell…?"

It had been the same as that meeting in the West City bar before the whole world changed. But this time Roy hadn't laughed. In fact, he had glared at Hughes. Glared at him, anger rising inside of him, for trying to pick up the thread of that story, unravel his old wounds for a moment's entertainment.

For some reason this was an escape for Hughes—thinking about love, thinking about women. But for Roy it would always be another war, another struggle, and the cause of more nightmares.

And that would have been his dying thought. Rancor at his best friend. Perhaps, his only friend. And of course a fraction of that thought would be about Riza Hawkeye.

Not that he ever talked about her. But she was always in his mind. She returned nightly after the temperature dropped, the echo of a melody played on a violin, soaring through his brain like a cool evening breeze.

And these were Roy's thoughts as he found himself alive, yet still panicking, as his heart tried to squeeze a lifetime's worth of heartbeats into twenty seconds. As his heartbeat settled after the gunshot, the one that had crunched through meat and bone, an eerie silence descended.

"Thankfully we have the Hawk's Eye on our side."

Fear, sharper and more piercing than the terror he'd felt a moment before, enveloped him, as if the shot still ringing in the air had punctured his heart and he had just become aware that he was bleeding out. Darkness orbited his vision. His hands, now gloved, numbed. A cold sweat drenched him.

"Hawk..?" Roy repeated to himself in a panicked whisper, stumbling over the name.

The same feeling of panic, the same wave of disgust that had engulfed him when Riza Hawkeye had shown him the tattoo on her back. Somehow Roy found himself unhappy to have been saved, and unhappy to be alive.

"Uh huh. A real ace sharp shooter. She's causing quite the stir in my circle of friends."

Hughes had no idea how much so.

"She's not even graduated yet, but because she's so skilled they brought her to the front to bolster sniper ranks. She's practically a legend—" Hughes trailed off as his ears caught up with his brain, suddenly registering Roy's silence.

"Yeah it's disturbing to think about, I know. If they had to drag a kid like that our here, then the end must be near."

"She?" Roy repeated, horrified. His throat ached daily, an ailment of the sand and his chronic lack of sleep. But now he felt another ache, a spasm of acid bubbling from his heart.

"Yeah, she's worked with my division before, I just met her about a week ago. But I suppose you're new in town. So you wouldn't know. But why are you shocked the sniper's a 'she?' You got a problem with female soldiers? Well, she's blonde, so I'd bet you'd like her. Come on, I'll introduce you…"

Roy's vision darkened further, as if he were about to faint. Hughes' words faded in a maelstrom of whirling sounds and winds. The sands swirled around him, and the hourglass tilted upside down, smothering him in memories of the past.

"Libera me," Roy whispered, in a voice full of fear and awe, as his eyes glanced over the text that began at the nape of her neck. The sigil was massive, spanning the girl's entire back, full of intricate text and symbols he only half understood. He choked back the whiskey that had risen in his throat with a cough.

The secrets of flame alchemy brought a sudden warmth to his face.

She stood before him, half naked, and he had no idea what to think. Never could he have imagined that the secrets to flame alchemy would be presented to him in such a way, so intricately entwined with someone's life. And the life of Riza Hawkeye of all people.

"What?" Riza replied, her voice quavering and not much louder than his.

"Libera me," he repeated, trying to inject a clinical, detached tone into his voice. "It's what written on your back. It's Xerxesian and it means—"

"Save me." Riza supplied, before he had had time to muddle through the conjugation of verbs. "Or deliver me, if you're feeling fancy." A hollow, nervous laugh fell from her mouth.

"You know what it means? Is it a code, or a cipher?" Roy asked, his heart leaping amidst the confusion, terror, and embarrassment that was blazing through his brain. Perhaps she would be able to puzzle out the Xerxesian text and the alchemical symbols that utterly overwhelmed him. He recognized symbols of the sun and of fire, the obvious salamander. But all together the sigil seemed a mystery. The magnificence of the masterpiece before him awed him beyond comprehension.

"No," she replied dejectedly, as she hugged the shirt tighter across her chest and tilted her head to the side, as if trying to meet his eyes. "My father said that only a brilliant alchemist would be able to discern the meaning from what's on my back. But that text is older than my father's research. It's from an ancient prayer for the dead. They would chant it at funerals."

She paused a second before clarifying in a shaky voice, "He had me read a lot of ancient Xerxesian texts as a girl and then he told some of the text he chose to include in the sigil. But he never showed me the whole design when he was tattooing me. I've only ever caught glimpses of it."

Embarrassment burned red across his ears as this sudden flicker of hope extinguished. Of course she wouldn't know. She had never been an alchemist. For a second he marveled, both at the intricacy of the tattoo and the extent of Riza's knowledge. She hadn't been lying when she'd told him that her father had ensured she'd received a proper education.

Then the true horror of the situation presented itself to him. The tattoo was massive. The pain must have been extreme, especially where the ink hovered above the thin skin of her spine and shoulder blades. Her father had done this to her. Yet she was barely more than a girl. And now the secrets to the most powerful form of alchemy had become a part of her skin, a part of her. Secrets that men would kill for. His nausea returned.

"When did he do this to you?" The question fell out of his mouth without much thought, but once spoken, it became a genuine curiosity.

Riza gave no response. Her impassive, unmoving stature made no acknowledgement of Roy's question.

"Riza, when did he do this to you?"

She inhaled deeply before cutting to the heart of his question. "It's not as if you could have stopped him."

"Why…?" he breathed, unable to distill any of the myriad questions in his brain into words. His word was not so much a question as an expression of unbridled disgust. And a wish he could have prevented this.

"He said there was no one to teach."

Roy froze. He could have prevented this.

"I think he was angry at first. He definitely was the first year. But then by this past summer, he'd speak of you every so often. I don't think he'd admit it, but you were his favorite." He could hear her swallow. Her voice dropped to a murmur. "…his first choice. If you hadn't left for the military, I think he may have taught it to you himself."

"Riza, when?" His voice was fury and fire. And loud. His voice was a yell.

She was choking back tears. "I— don't, I can't—"

"Riza."

"He started the day after you left," she whispered, without any trace of emotion. And then she froze, the silent spasms that had wracked her frame suddenly stopping as she processed the volume of his shouts. "But he had been planning it for years."

"I could have prevent—"

"No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"I don't think—I—I know it wouldn't have mattered. He had been troubled for so long." Another deep breath. Exhalation. Exasperation. "I—I think he had decided to do this long ago."

"I know you think that's complete bullshit, Riza."

"He hadn't been in his right mind for years, Roy." He had never heard her talk like this, with the color of frustrated anger in her voice. "Look, I may not know alchemy, but I know my father. The text on my back—he had been repeating it to himself for years. It's not just that the text is some cautionary tale about the perils of flame alchemy. It's him reflecting on himself. He chose the text because he felt he had already died once he figured it out. He was a mad man who lost himself in the search for knowledge. And you can't argue with a mad man. No one could have talked him out of his crazy ideas. No one alive, at least."

Riza broke off nervously, as if anxious to switch topics. "Do you know Xerxesian? I can recite the chant for you, at the very least, if you'd like."

"I took some Xerxesian as a boy. And a year of study was mandatory in the Academy." Roy's voice still rang with his bitterness.

Riza, perhaps growing uncomfortable, filled the silence with an unprompted recitation.

"Save me, Lord, from eternal death on that fearful day."

She began again with a faint stutter and he couldn't help but feel that she were pleading for her own release. That the text had been her own oft-repeated prayer. He choked suddenly and that caused her to pause a moment, and all he could think was the wish that he could have saved her.

"…o—on that fearful day. When the heavens and the earth shall be moved, when you shall come to judge the world by fire. I—I am made to tremble…"

His brain frazzled, as he desperately studied the miniscule script, trying to both read the letters and translate the worlds. "…and I fear…"

He lost track of Riza's words until she had reached the end.

"When you shall come to judge the world by fire," they whispered together, as his fingers underlined the text between her shoulders.

She shivered at his touch. He jumped, finding himself flustered.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't—"

Her eyes, warm and amber, were suddenly gazing into his. He found himself too startled to speak as she turned around, shirt still clutched to her chest. He was just a fly, entranced and trapped by the amber, destined to be stuck until the end of time. Until that fearful day of judgement.

The moment ended. A cloud across the sun darkened the room and she turned away from him.

A blush still lingered on her shoulders.

"The Xerxesians believed the world would end by fire," she said, her voice steady once again. Her eyes flickered away from him, and the sun shone warm on her pensive face. "I think it was the fire itself that drove him to madness, and it was the knowledge of it that killed him." She paused, coughing at something that seemed stuck in her throat. "Maybe it was the guilt too—but—no, it really wasn't. It was far worse once he had finally figured it all out."

She seemed to be talking to herself as much as she was talking to him. Some of that whiskey must still be burning in her system. And hidden among her words were things she still didn't want to talk about. In some ways, she was as mysterious and obtuse as her father and his damned research on her back.

"But you—you're different Roy." Her voice shifted, growing gentle. She was looking right at him, and her face was all warmth. "I know you don't want to use this for yourself. So I want this flame alchemy to help the world." She gazed into his eyes as she lifted one of her hands and placed it on his chest. Underneath the layers of two shirts and a jacket, his heart hammered. His brain began reeling.

"I want to help you reach your goals and I know I can't do much for you, but…"

As her words trailed off, he tried to decipher what she was saying. Everything seemed to be a symbol. Was he reading into her words like he was her tattoo? He couldn't help to think that she was insinuating that she wanted to do more than help him understand flame alchemy. Was she simply telling him that she supported his goals? Or was she asking for something more?

Her eyes were still boring into his and his heart still hammered beneath her hand.

Was she coming on to him?

"I—Riza—" he began, his voice catching in his throat as his heartbeat thudded through his veins. He was too confused as to whether she liked him and, if she did, what she expected him to do with that information. He tried to smile jovially, disarm her, do anything to convince her he was too dumb to play into her words."You don't need to help me."

The world constricted around him. And he realized that it must be closing around her too. And he was the only one she had left.

She was disturbed by his silence. She added, quickly and breathlessly, "You can stay until you've figured my tattoo out. I owe you for the help you gave me with the funeral. You've done so much, and it's the least I can do for you, Roy."

She emphasized his name with a honeyed sweetness. It disturbed him almost as much as the sight of the tattoo had.

He had heard the tone of voice before when overhearing some of his sisters talking to men in Madam's bar. They often used it as an act, a way they spoke when they wanted the man to feel he was in control. A voice that sounded of pleading yet was driven by a calculated seduction.

The desperation in her voice had rattled him. As it repeated in his mind, he wondered if she was just a terrified, lonely girl looking for comfort, willing to please him in any way just to buy his attention or his care. Did she feel pressure to bare all of herself, not just the flame alchemy, to the first person who had interest in it? Or had her father twisted her mind until she believed the whole world operated on principles of equivalent exchange? Did she think that arranging a funeral cost an evening of pleasure?

What desperation was driving her to the point of this?

Struggling against every urge and desire, he stepped back, away from her, away from her tattoo and her honey-colored eyes, and away from the promise of fire that was burning between them. His obligations, as well the promises he needed to keep, overpowered and terrified him.

"You don't owe me anything, Riza," he said, backing up until he collided with the cold mantel. He wondered again, why was he determined to erect desperate walls between them, as he did with some of the overbearing women he'd meet at bars? Why? Because none of this seemed like Riza. Her desperation reeked of manipulation. And playing into it would be degrading her. He would fail to take care of her. "If I owe anything at all, I'm indebted to your father, not to you."

And suddenly he felt disgusted at his desire for the alchemy, as well as his desire for her. They were ugly lusts, and they were reflected back at him now. Master Hawkeye had been incredibly cruel. The man who went seeking for flame alchemy would have to violate this girl's dignity, perhaps in an even more intimate way than he had already done.

Had her father assumed he could give his daughter away with his research, a twisted 'two-for-the-price-of-one' deal?

"Look, I promised—nevermind." He couldn't bring up his hurried promise to her father. He knew it would be unwise. But he needed to break her out of this madness.

His trembling and bloodless hands knocked against his pants. It was all too much for him. His distress slipped out of him in a cold, unfeeling voice.

"You should go stand in the kitchen. It's cold in here, Riza"

He would need the fire more than her. But he also need to be away from her. He let his eyes slip from hers.

"Go warm up in there, I'll be over in a minute."

He realized what he was saying, as her face paled, her eyes dropped, her arms froze. She must think he was rejecting her. "And get some water. That whiskey was stronger than I thought. I can't read while I'm buzzed." He hoped blaming alcohol would be enough to diffuse any burgeoning insecurities.

He'd deal more with her feelings later. First he needed to reign in his own mad surge of emotions. The almost-perverted attraction, the horror, the anger, and the confusion and shame at suddenly being confronted with a challenge. He thought he would be able to understand the notes his teacher had left him. But not this.

The sun had set. What the hell was he going to do. He wanted to learn flame alchemy. But not like this.

He wanted her. But not like this.

Maybe she was just acting like a girl begging for a way out. Maybe she was begging to be free of this wrecked house that overshadowed her entire childhood, and was built upon a collapsing relationship with a father who terrified her more than loved her, who asked more of her than he ever gave.

But what if she liked him?

The two of them had darted around each other while he had been an apprentice, perhaps both sidestepping their mutual feelings for each other. He had always been nervous of stepping on the wrong floorboard, terrified the floor might give out, or else send a cacophony of squeaks into the silent night to reveal her disapproving father standing concealed behind a corner. But the desire for connection had always flashed in the corner of her eyes. A pining that, though unexpressed and unspoken, lingered like a melody. This pining had been the regular accompaniment of his thoughts since he had left, resounding as steadily as the hall clock, or the creak of old beams settling every night.

Maybe the right opportunity had simply evaded them.

Perhaps the age difference had been too great, or both of them had been too shy and too haunted by the specter of her always-lurking father. She had been young.

Nothing had been said between them when he had left to begin the Academy. But still, he had left his address. Even though she hadn't initiated any writing, he was shocked the day when he had received a response. He had saved the letters, doing his best to conceal the sporadic correspondence from Hughes' prying eyes. Each letter filled him with a growing hope in an uncertain future. In the letters, a witty young woman replaced the shy girl he had lacked the opportunity to know. He wanted to know more of her.

Had he read too much into these letters? Had he imagined the mutual feelings?

And, even if she liked him, could he act on her feelings when she was acting nothing like herself?

His heart pounding and brain racing, he paced slowly back to the kitchen.

She stood at the fire, her shirt half buttoned, her arms folded tightly against her chest. She glanced up as soon as he approached. She looked ashamed, embarrassed. The reflection of the orange flames added the sole color to her skin.

"I'll bring one of the settees over from the parlor for you. That way you can lie down and be comfortable." He wanted to sound caring, warm. Yet he couldn't risk his voice cracking or betraying the feelings of terror in his voice.

The words came out simply, almost cold.

He had had practice sounding imposing, sounding authoritative and emotionless while at the Academy. And he had grown adept at it. But he had never wanted to use it in his personal life. Nor use it on her.

As he peered over her back that evening, neck straining and hands as far away from her as he could possibly keep them, he couldn't help but think back to when they were children. He nearly laughed when a memory came to him, the first time he had been shocked by physical touch. The extent of their physical contact had been two legs pressed together as they rode from town on the back of a hay wagon. The first bump of their legs had set a blush on his face that had nothing to do with the warm September afternoon. Her skirt had been nearly as long as his trousers. Yet still he blushed.

And he had been shocked one pale winter morning by the sight of her neck when she had bent over the wide-basined kitchen sink to wash her hair.

"Yo, Roy; Central Command to Mustang." Hughes had been trying to talk to him.

"What, Hughes?" Roy snapped, not even trying to conceal his ire.

"So I take it you've got no happy stories to share?"

The hourglass of memories had emptied. He was staring through clear eyes at the present. He could see. And he hated the reality that appeared before him.

He screamed, an anguished, wordless scream. And, his gloves still on, he snapped and let a fireball engulf some rubble to his left.

"Fuck!" he screamed. "It's all my fucking fault! She should have let me die, like I deserve!" He turned around toward the tower, now behind them. Was she still watching him? "She should have shot me," he murmured hoarsely.

"Shit, Roy." Hughes peered into his face with concern. "Don't beat yourself up that you didn't have your gloves on. That's what the snipers are for, anyway. To look after you."

Look after. The words resonated in Roy's ears.

Roy, look after my daughter…please.

Roy swallowed, his mouth suddenly full of the shards of broken promises that tasted an awful lot like sand.

"Sorry, Hughes." His apology was gruff but genuine. "Shocked, that's all." His head hanging low, Roy paced once again after Hughes to the camp.

"I'm guessing it got worse with that girl you were telling me about?"

He laughed a bitter laugh, one that tasted caustic in his throat.

"Yes." Roy said. "Yes. It got worse."

Hughes would never understand just how worse.

Roy spent a fitful night on the settee in the kitchen the night after the funeral. He thought of how he could have done things differently. Once again, he had left all his emotions, save anger, unsaid.

Just like usual.

He could barely spend more than an hour looking at her back before he'd had enough. With each second he felt like an overbearing shadow, like a specter of her father. His neck ached, his arms shook from supporting his weight at an awkward angle, and his eyes burned from trying to read the miniscule script while recreating it on paper.

He had lied. He told her he was starving and so they ate a silent supper, separated by the bare expanse of immaculately-ironed table linen. She had sat awkwardly away from him, downcast eyes brimming with embarrassed tears as she poked at the stew in her bowl without eating any of it.

She had always been strong person, stoic and composed in moments of distress. He'd never seen her like this. And he didn't know how to respond to her, how to reassure her or himself.

So he let the silence fester, knowing full well that he'd regret it as a mistake.

Then, when she had suggested that he study more of the tattoo after the meal, he lied again. He told her he was tired. He told her to go upstairs and to leave him alone with his thoughts.

He had been lying in front of the dying fire for nearly two hours at this point. Watching the flames flicker just out of reach, he tried to ponder what the entwined serpents could mean. The salamander, the main array of triangles within the circle, and the sun all made sense. But what about the serpents? He'd need to look over Master Hawkeye's alchemical texts in the morning. And what did the text mean?

Pale smoke curled, serpentine, into the flue.

It had to be an encryption. The pattern of words on her left shoulder seemed irregular, like it concealed equations and chemical compounds.

He sipped again at the bottle, feeling the fire melt in his throat. He had found more whiskey in a cabinet. He was drunk.

Shadows danced on the ceiling. They waltzed. The Drachman music still wailed from the corner. He must have restarted the gramophone when he had rooted around for more alcohol. He couldn't exactly remember.

She had shuddered every time he had leaned close to her, as if the sensation of his breath on her back startled her. Then her muscles would tense as if she were fighting her reflexes.

She was probably uncomfortable. And terrified by her vulnerability and his proximity to her. He was barely more than a stranger, a man who she had barely known as a boy.

Yet she had startled him far more with her advances. Had she startled herself as well?

Had she been embarrassed and ashamed? Was it the sting of self-consciousness, rather than girlish modesty, that spread a flash across her shoulders? He had found himself repulsed by her advances, yet wasn't entirely sure why. Clearly, she had been expressing some interest. But what type and why?

And his mind was running wild with fantasies. He wanted to slap himself. But instead, he let himself fall into them. The whiskey called him to sleep. The memory of those honey eyes beckoned him to dream.

In one dream they were still standing in the parlor.

"Roy, if there's anything I can do for you, anything at all…"

The Riza in his mind said everything he wanted to hear. And his dream self had no qualms in speaking everything he wanted to say.

There are no responsibilities in dreams. Nor are there consequences.

"You don't owe me anything, Riza. At least, not anything I can't give back," he clarified quickly.

What the waking world deemed stupidity was brilliance to his addled dreaming mind. He turned around until he was facing away from her and shrugged his blue uniform jacket off his shoulders. The buttons and insignia clattered against the floor.

"If you're offering your back, the least I can do is give you mine as well."

And then, in as fast a motion as he could manage, he popped open the buttons of his ironed white dress shirt before sliding it off his arms. He fumbled with his undershirt, one of the short sleeves catching on his elbow and then snagging on his shoulder. He tugged it off with a quick jerk. He smoothed his hair out of nervous habit as much as necessity.

She was silent. He stared at the floor, waiting for the creak of the floorboards between them, the ones he'd listen for every night. He waited for the shock waves to radiate from her movement. Head bowed, his neck flushing along with his face, he wondered if he had stepped too far. Was the floor finally ready to collapse under their next steps?

"Like equivalent exchange," Riza said softly. His stomach jolted at her words.

He could hear her stepping closer to him, could almost feel the air quiver behind him as she reached a hand toward him.

He trembled as she traced the line of a muscle above the shoulder, near the nape of his neck. What secrets was she finding written on his skin?

"Do you have a tattoo too?"

He laughed at Riza's question. "Not that I know of." Dream Roy couldn't be sure of that fact. For all he knew, he did have a tattoo.

Dream Roy decided he did have a tattoo. Something macho, like a dragon across his chest.

"My back for your back?" she whispered, as if weighing the prospect in her mind. "But what if I want more than that?" She asked simply, almost innocently, no trace of insinuation in her tone. Her question was genuine. But still, Roy felt a twinge of nervous pleasure deep within his stomach. This girl would be the death of him.

He was unable to resist her, and so he glanced backwards, able to catch her in his periphery.

"Like what?" he whispered, his heart pounding furiously. This girl was far smarter than he was.

She didn't answer. The silence was an invitation.

He was too curious, he turned around fully.

And suddenly the distance between the two of them had vanished and her honey eyes were gazing up at his, barely a foot away. She still clutched her shirt modestly to her chest, but he felt her bare arms brush his chest.

"Like this," she breathed.

Without questioning, his eyes flickered shut and he lowered his lips to meet hers. His skin was warm on his. Her lips were delicious on his. His arms found their way around her back, pulling her closer. She shuddered. His left thumb stroked her back, while his other hand stroked the hair that curled behind her ears.

He flicked his eyes open. He could barely make out the long sleeve of her shirt stretching across the floor to his left. He flicked them closed again, a flush stealing over his face. She was pressed against him, completely shirtless. She was warm and her heart thudded against his and—

A log snapped into sparks and the dream exploded.

Blood was coursing through his body, and his stomach throbbed. A lot of him was throbbing. It wasn't pleasant, nor was it sexy. Guilt overwhelmed him. Again, his desire for her disgusted him.

The dark kitchen was empty. He was honestly surprised to be awake before Riza.

Yet she had been there. A blanket had been carefully laid over him. The counters were tidied.

She must have moved the whiskey bottle to the counter. Besides it stood a pitcher of water. She was using his own line on him. He had said he couldn't read buzzed. But he'd drink the water. His head was beginning to throb with a dully-thudding hangover ache.

As he looked around, he realized that she had tidied the kitchen quite completely. He wished he could have done something for her, but she had left nothing for him to do.

Well, he could start the fire for the day. It had mostly extinguished itself in the shower of sparks that had awoken him.

Slipping on his overcoat, he felt his way through the back door and out into the pre-dawn darkness. The cold gnawed at his face. Any trace of drunkenness evaporated, and his hangover headache melted into a throbbing in his jaw. Thankfully the walk to the wood shed had become routine when he had been an apprentice, because it was still yet too dark to see more than a few feet in front of him. He opened the shed door and grabbed an armful of logs before turning and crunching back to the house.

Once inside, he tended to the traces of last night's flame.

He shoveled out the ashes, doing his best to leave the delicate embers untouched. He crumpled up some paper from the bin beside the fire, tossing them atop the coals. He watched the fire reawaken, inhaling the stuffy pine-smoke smell that smothered the darkness and deposited another layer of soot upon the brick. In some ways it was like a baby bird hatching from an egg, a warm life emerging from the shell of lifeless matter, fluttering and blinking into the air until it was strong enough to soar away from the ground, away from the limitations of gravity. He lay a few of the smaller branches and logs besides the burning papers.

The fire twinkled as the sparks whooshed into flame.

This was the power he would be able to harness. But all he had achieved was replicating the notes by hand on paper. He still needed to figure out what it all meant. But once he had, he'd never have to do this tedious work again.

He startled, a noise like a cracking log causing him to turn around. Riza stood, a knit shawl clutched in one of her hands, the empty tea kettle in the other. Her eyes widened.

"Riza! Um, good morning. I—I didn't know you were awake..." He scrambled to his feet and furiously dusted the ash from his knees. "I was just starting the fire. Sorry if I woke you." Finding his hands dusty too, he began shaking them awkwardly.

"How would you have woken me?" she asked quietly. Her eyes flickered away from his.

"I don't know, I just…I'm afraid that I've been making a lot of noise." As the words left his mouth, his arms still flailing wildly, his left hand collided with the poker that stood upright in the ash pail. The whole mess of metal collapsed in a loud clatter on the floor with a heavy cloud of ashen smoke. Riza winced at the echo still reverberating around the kitchen and shut her eyes.

"Shit." He scratched at his head with his still dusty hand and looked down at the floor. "I'll clean this up."

How was it they couldn't even look at each other again? How was it he kept ruining things?

"As I was saying, you merely startled me. I thought you were asleep." Roy wished he could have seen the twinkle of a laugh in her eyes. But no, they were dull.

"Could I help you with anything? Maybe I could help you make breakfast?"

She had already turned around and was lighting matches for the stove. "You don't need to, there's only space on the stove for eggs and tea."

His heart thundered again. He took a deep breath. "Look Riza, I'm sorry for snapping at you yesterday."

She didn't turn around. "You didn't do anything I didn't deserve. I was—I was disturbing you and I should have realized it sooner. I was acting ridiculous."

"Riza, you weren't—"

"You don't have to lie to me to make me feel better." He wasn't sure whether the bitterness in her words were directed at him or herself. Maybe it was for both of them.

Roy lacked the mental strength to push through this conversation and neither of them seemed to want to even have it. Maybe the opportunity to talk would return. Maybe.

"Well, if you don't need any help, could I look at some of your father's books in his study before we start up again? I need to check some references."

"What's his is yours. I'm never going to use them."

He pondered her words as he bent to the floor to mark it up with a transmutation circle that would bind the scattered ash into a solid mound. How horribly true they were. And then she offered him the key to her father's study and his thoughts turned once again to alchemy.

The morning passed without much conversation between the two of them. Perhaps their interactions were less awkward than the previous day's. But he had almost given up hope that they'd talk again, by the time he had sifted through at least five dusty tomes that catalogued alchemical symbols and encryption techniques and spent some seven hours hunched over her back.

By three, the afternoon sun had crept into the kitchen, danced lemon yellow on the walls, and distracted him.

"I need a break."

He leaned back, feeling the crunch of his spine and neck. He had been making progress, but the tattoo seemed to make no more sense, the ancient alphabet letters and alchemical symbols blurring in his mind. His closed his eyes. He could still see them. And he could still see the rounded curve of her back turning into her hips, the—

He stood up, spinning on his feet. The stool clattered to the tile in his haste and he stumbled, catching himself on the mantel. He swore.

Riza sat up quickly, her arms pressed against her chest as she twisted toward him. "Are you alright?" she asked, quiet fear in her voice.

"Fine." He said, trying once again to look away and think of anything but her, anything but her pale skin and her… he cut his thoughts off. "I just need to stop looking at the notes, that's all. Maybe I'll go outside, get some fresh air."

"Could I come with you?"

"No!" he shouted, throwing his hand toward her in an instinctual, defensive fear. He glanced up as he slipped his foot into one of the boots that had been warming by the fire. A light seemed to dim in her eyes. He regretted his reaction and began trying to recall his words.

"No, I mean of course, if you want to. Of course you can." Shit. He kept messing this up. "I just didn't want to make you feel like you needed to keep entertaining me or something."

"I don't want to bother you if you'd prefer to be alone." She had looked dejectedly away now and was now buttoning her shirt

"No—no." he stammered. Damn. He was pushing her away when he didn't need to, when he didn't want to. "I'd like you to come with me. I'd love some company."

"If you're sure—"

"I am." He cut her off, not wanting to risk any more misunderstandings. "I mean, I wouldn't want to get lost in the woods without you." He offered a quick smile. She didn't smile back.

"I'll meet you by the door, I just need to change into some warmer things," she said.

In the strong afternoon sun, slants of shadow and light were pulling the colors out of grey tree trunks. Purple and yellow and sap-reds emerged from the grey bark. Richer, watery colors sprouted from the stems of berry bushes on the ground.

Winter in the city was always a dreary affair of melting slush puddles and icy fogs that mired Central. But here, in the wooded countryside, winter seemed to burst with life. Greenery appeared in pine groves and holly shrubs, as well as the mosses and wild onions that flourished besides clumps of snow. And then an array of other rich colors appeared in the discarded leaves and dull tree barks. It reminded him of the fire that burst from dying coals and logs that morning; the spark of life hid within all these inanimate objects, awaiting a reawakening.

They had ventured out upon a woodland path that connected to the main road into town. He wasn't quite sure where they were going. He wasn't sure if Riza knew either. But since the two of them had begun walking, she hadn't once doubled back or changed their path with a sudden turn and a huff.

They hadn't talked since they had stepped into the crisp out-of-doors. But, in between the wind through beech leaves, and the distant call of birds, the silence wasn't overbearing. The day seemed crisp rather than cold, although the wind bit at his exposed ears. She had offered him a hat, but he had refused it, being fooled by the warm sunshine inside.

The collar of his thick woolen uniform coat scratched against his chin. He hadn't shaved that morning.

Ahead of them, the woods seemed to part to reveal some great, snow-covered field. A few more steps revealed it to be a frozen lake. A small bridge crossed the water at its narrowest, near a junction with a small stream. Water gurgled in between gaps in the ice.

He was calmer then he'd been in the past day. She seemed to be too. Perhaps it was the fact that they were now separated by a comfortable distance, with layers of wool and cloth shielding their bodies. His physicality no longer threatened her. And she was no longer exposed.

"Careful," he said, noticing a patch of ice on the wooden bridge. His hand flew to her back to guide her around it. A gloved hand. He felt her tense and shiver as she inhaled.

"Thank you, Roy." She had turned around. Her mouth remained neutral, but her eyes smiled.

"I was thinking we could sit down once we got to the lake," she said, as if happy to continue talking. "My legs are a bit tired from walking in the cold."

"Sitting down sounds good."

As he settled himself besides her on a hidden bench that she had pointed out, he watched his breath, visible in the air as a cloud, catch the setting sun. Ice and snow had covered the lake and the late afternoon light turned it pale blue. The sky melted into a blur of yellow-orange around the sun and the trees stretched into colorless ink lines.

His legs seemed to have frozen until they were entirely numb, but he was still aware that her left leg pressed against his right. Just like that summer afternoon on the back of the hay wagon, he couldn't even dare to shift his leg.

Riza was the first to break the silence.

"This may sound silly, but did you only pack your uniform? I haven't seen you wear anything else around the house."

He scratched his head, embarrassed that she had noticed. "Yeah, I didn't think to pack anything else. I just grabbed my bag and hopped on the first train I could get."

"I wish I'd realized and asked sooner. I'll wash them for you first thing in the morning. And when we get back, I'll find you some of father's clothes for you to sleep in."

"Hey, I did also pack some pajamas. I haven't been sleeping in these!"

She giggled.

"I have not once showed up for breakfast in wrinkled clothes! Not once! I'll have you know I'm a military officer, not some—"

"Oh you're an officer now, are you Cadet Mustang?" She pronounced his rank with a certain mocking reverence.

He sighed and sunk his head into his hands as she laughed to herself. It was good to hear her laugh again. "I give up."

"I wish you could have seen the lake in the summer." Her eyes grew distant, as if she were looking at the warm tree-filled sight. "It's so beautiful and all the swans come to swim in the morning mist . And then the sunset sets the whole lake on fire before the fireflies descend. It's as if the forest is full of stars."

"That sounds beautiful," Roy said. "I guess I'll just have to come back and see it then."

At this, Riza paused. "Why did you come back?"

"You wrote."

"No, but really. Why did you come back?" Riza asked with a tone of insistence. "Father had already told you he'd never teach you flame alchemy if you joined the Academy."

"So?"

"So you came back even though you know your trip would probably be in vain."

"What do you mean it would be in vain?"

"Well, there was a chance you wouldn't get the secrets to Flame Alchemy and there'd be nothing for you here."

"What do you mean nothing?"

"What do I mean?" she asked, utterly confused. "What are you trying to say?"

"You were here."

Riza's mouth had flown open as if she was already ready to protest whatever answer he had given. But then she shut it again, unable to respond. She glanced away a second, and he noticed something more than the winter chill on her face.

"It was lonely here without you, I'll admit," she said, looking at the pale lake. The sun drenched her pale hair in a soft red glow. "It was easier to manage back when…"

She trailed off, and once again changed the subject. Roy was happy to hear her talk. He wanted to hear her voice and he wanted to hear what she had to say. He shifted closer to her, so he could feel her arm flush against his.

"What will you do once you figure it out? The array, I mean."

"Well, the term starts in a few days, so I'll need to get back to Central as soon as I can. Hopefully I figure it all out before then. But regardless, I want to make sure you're all set without me."

"I said I'll figure something out, so that's what I'll do." She smiled wanly, looking up at him. She had seemed to be warming, yet there were things she didn't want to talk about. Still, she was smiling at him

And in the time that he had spent staring at her, he realized that not only were their legs pressed together. Their hands had touched. The edge of their pinkies.

He began to talk again as he devised a plan to shift his hand toward hers. "I'm just having a hard time with puzzling out the alchemical equations."

"I wish I knew anything at all about that."

"Did you ever learn alchemy, Riza?"

She inhaled, looking away. "My father tried to teach me, even though he hadn't wanted to. But I begged him when I was little and then he finally gave in. But then I never seemed to get the hang of it."

"I guess the ability to perform alchemy is something you're born with," Roy mused solemnly. He watched the shadow of a bird fly over the ice. The ice was simultaneously sherbet yellow and a pale blue.

"You know, we should play chess again," Riza said. "I'd missed our games and I've been doing a lot of—"

A sudden spark of inspiration surged in his brain. Several sights combined—the pale rising moon, chess pieces, and something he had glimpsed in a book.

He jumped up in excitement. Then the thought vanished. He swore.

"What Roy?"

"I just had a brilliant stroke of inspiration and then it vanished."

"I was afraid you were having a stroke."

"Ha ha, very funny."

He did his best to sit back down, just as close to her as he had been before. She made no effort to move. In fact, she had left her hand, palm empty and open, on her lap. He made a point of setting his hand on his lap as he sat down.

Perhaps, just maybe, he'd be able to hold hers in his.

"It's just I'm confused as to why the whole array is contained within two serpents. Serpents normally represent water, not fire."

"Is he suggesting you split water into gaseous elements and use the oxygen to feed the fire?"

"I thought you said you knew nothing about alchemy?"

"I may not be able to do it, but I've read a fair bit about it myself," she said, before her voice lowered. "And I know there's just so much for you to figure out. When are you leaving?"

"I'll leave once I figure it out," he said, leaning back on the bench with a huff. He'd have to leave the day after tomorrow. But he couldn't bring himself to tell her that.

"I wish I could help you."

"You wish you could?—Riza, you've already helped me! Without you I'd be forced to start from scratch. I'd never learn it."

She seemed about to protest, so he interrupted her before she could begin. "I just wish there was a way for me to help you. I'm sure there are so many thoughts and feelings running through your head, and it seemed, at least to me, that they were affecting you yesterday." He had tried to word things carefully. But he had to at least try to address their interaction yesterday. "You didn't seem like yourself," he clarified vaguely.

She sat silently, processing his words. Had he pushed too far? Had he offended her? He opened his mouth to apologize when she spoke.

"Roy, I want to apologize for how I was acting yesterday—"

Roy cut her off. "You don't need to apologize for anything."

"But I do! I was an idiot, I treated you like an idiot, and tried to push you into a horrible situation—"

"—Riza, your father died some four days ago and you're carrying the burden of the world's most powerful alchemy on your body. If anything, I should be apologizing."

"What do you mean, you should?"

"Once I realized it was on your back, I—just, I know it can't be easy to stand in front of someone completely exposed like that." He swallowed, trailing off, "And instead of communicating I just pushed you away to make it easier on myself."

She stared at her feet, as if waiting for him to say more.

"Riza, what I'm trying to say is that—" he paused, unsure of how honest he would be. Could he be as upfront to simply tell her he liked her? He wanted to, but he still wasn't brave enough.

"You don't need to apologize and you certainly don't need to save me, Roy." It was her turn to interrupt him. "I was an idiot and I knew what I was doing. And I know you're the type of person who wants to help, who doesn't anyone want to suffer. But you're going to drive yourself crazy if you think that you can save and protect everyone, especially the people who haven't asked you to save them."

"Well your back literally says "save me,"" he said, the thought slipping out unfiltered. His numb fingers clenched inside his glove.

She laughed rather emotionlessly. "Touché, Roy Mustang."

"Riza, I never want you to think you owe me anything. That me taking care of your father's funeral arrangements requires," he swallowed, wondering again how graphic to be. He chose the delicate route. "—that it require requires payment."

She was looking away from him, but the edges of their hands remained pressed close.

"I just want you to know that the world doesn't run on equivalent exchange. At least, it doesn't between the two of us. After you father died, I had to make sure you were alright, and I'm always—"

He closed his mouth. Again, he couldn't bring up her father's request. Something about it seemed too personal, too intimate for her to know. And yet so did revealing the extent of his feelings for her.

"But now I'll be able to take the State Alchemist exam after graduation. Maybe even before. And if I'm lucky, the certification should keep me in Central in a research laboratory. Hopefully it'll keep me out of the conflict in the East."

Her head raised above his chest, meeting his eyes in a question. "Is it that bad already?"

"They've had troops out there for four years now. We all joke about how we'll end up there at some point. They've increased the military presence in the East quite dramatically already." He swallowed hard, pushing those thoughts away. "But I want to talk about something besides the military and alchemy."

"All you do think about is alchemy, though," Riza said simply.

And suddenly his hand had been claimed by hers. Her fingers threaded in between his and their palms were pressed flat. The sensation felt far more intimate than the sight of her naked back.

"No I don't!" He cried, suddenly stuttering as his heart accelerated. "I can talk about the meter of Cretan poetry! And the way the gardens of Central are full of flowers In the spring. And…" He found himself talking for a while of nothing in particular, until his entire jaw had grown numb and speaking without a heavy stutter grew impossible.

Because nothing else mattered. She was holding his hand. He didn't even dare look at the gentle smile on her face, lest he find it to be in his imagination.

The snow-covered lake had since become blue. It was still paler than the ever-darkening sky, but it too was growing increasingly dark in the evening. A few stars sparkled above the tree line.

"It's getting dark," he said softly, although the prospect of leaving this moment pained him.

"It gets dark far too early this time of year," Riza breathed. "And it was such a beautiful day."

He smiled, however sadly, at her sadness. She didn't want the day to end. She didn't want to get up. She didn't want to stop holding hands.

When they stood a minute later, they both took wordless care to keep their hands joined together.

As they crossed the bridge he slowed his pace to match hers and they walked side by side along the narrow, frost-covered trail. They didn't really speak, but there was a nervous excitement palpable between them, not unlike yesterday's walk from the cemetery. Perhaps this was an opportunity to start over once again.

"You know what really warms you up?" he asked, as they followed the moonlit path up the hill toward the manor.

"What does?" Her teeth chattered.

"Exercise."

"Huh."

"I mean dancing!" he burst, suddenly embarrassed and blushing for no reason at all. "Do you have any Strauss or Tchaikovsky records?"

"Probably, if father didn't use them for a bizarre experiment in the past year," Riza said, her teeth chattering as she slowly separated her hand from his to unlock the kitchen door. "You can knock yourself out with that, but I'm going to warm myself up with some tea. What type would you like?"

"Do you have any black tea?"

"I should."

The house was dark and warm, although not warm enough to provide any real comfort.

"Somehow I feel like I'm even colder in here," Roy groaned once he had managed to unstick his jaw."If you need me for anything, I'm going to go jump in the fire."

Riza seemed unperturbed. "Well, if you want music to listen to while you self-immolate, the records are in the cabinet underneath the dictionary shelf."

Deciding dancing would be an easier way to warm up than incurring massive burns, Roy made his way into the dark parlor. In a lower cabinet of the bookshelf he found the dusty stacks of records, just as Riza had promised. In the dim light, he could just make out one of the titles, 'Popular Dancing Tunes, the 1885 edition.'

"Perfect." He paced back to the kitchen, where Riza had started the stove and added another log to the fire.

He fiddled with the gramophone. A grand Cretan waltz filled the room.

"You could dance a waltz to this. Do you dance, Riza?"

"No. I never really learned in school. And father was the last person I could ever imagine dancing."

He stood up and offered his hand to her. "Well, you're learning then."

She laughed and stepped defensively behind a chair. "Not now, I'm not. Maybe when I'm warmer. But I'm putting on something else while we warm up."

He watched her take her lamp into the parlor, where the light danced on the glass doors of the cabinets and the porcelain knick-knacks nestled between the poetry books. She returned with another paper-wrapped record in hand. Stopping the waltz mid-measure, she lifted the needle and replaced the record.

The sound of tremulous, timid strings began filled the air. Then a violin like a soaring bird sang some sort of twisting, haunting melody.

"What's this?"

"It's my mother's favorite Drachman composer—Sibelius. She always told me his concerto sounded of winter. It was her favorite piece."

As the music continued on, he stretched out his hand expectantly.

She stared at it, before tucking her legs underneath herself on the settee.

"You're learning how to dance." Roy insisted.

"No, I will do just fine without that knowledge, thank you very much."

"Oh come on. You know some four or five languages, theoretical geometry, and embroidery. But any well-bred society woman needs to know how to dance. Think of it as me rounding out your education before you're let out into the world. I can't in good-conscience leave you with your inability to dance."

"Roy Mustang, if you want to dance, then go back to the Central dance hall that you were born in."

"Is that what you think of me?" he asked with an exaggerated tone of pain. "That I'm just some dancing gigolo who cavorts with who radio stars and flappers? Well, I am wounded, Miss Hawkeye."

Riza rolled her eyes. "That is precisely what I think of you, Roy. Now sit down and listen to this. I may not dance, but this music is romantic enough for me."

"Are you sure, Riza? I don't know about you, but this sounds like the opposite of romantic. You've got a weird definition of—"

"Will you shut up and listen, Roy?" Her teeth chattered loudly at her exclamation. "If you do, I may even heat up last night's stew for you."

He opened his mouth to say something, still not hearing anything special in the music. But, on the other side of the settee, Riza held her hand up to silence him.

And then the violin soared, into the most beautiful, lilting melody Roy had ever heard. It was melancholic and tragic and utterly romantic. He watched tears bubble over in her eyes, shining until her eyes became miniature moons in the dim room.

So this was Riza's romance.

It was deep as the ocean and dark as a winter storm, and passionate as the first day of spring. And it sounded familiar, not quite comforting but familiar. This was the melody of his unexpressed feelings for you.

"It's beautiful," she stated. Yes, it was.

He sat, transfixed, the growing sounds of orchestra and violin filling the room and resonating somewhere deep within his heart.

Then the violin sang by itself, desperate and sad, and the melody came in bits. He watched her each and every reaction—the nods of her head and the closing of her eyes, the simplest movements of her fingers. She had memorized the piece and absorbed it deep into her bloodstream.

Had they really held hands by the frozen lake or had he just imagined it as some hallucination of cold weather and unseen driving winds? He tried to inch himself closer to her on the settee, hoping that the moment by the lake could repeat itself.

The tea kettle whistled from the kitchen. "I'll get the tea," he said softly.

She nodded, still utterly transfixed as she gazed at the fire, her mind in the music.

He stood up, quickly busied himself with pouring the tea into two mugs, and returned to the settee. "I'm setting them on the side table, since they're so hot," he said quietly again. She didn't even nod. And then he sat down, right beside her.

The orchestra was building toward a rich crescendo. He wasn't sure where it was leading. Then relative silence before a rising melody played by some woodwind. A burgeoning hope. His heart was all confusion at the hairpin curves the music was making. Would the romance return?

And then a somber version of the melody returned. He needed more than that. Had he missed his chance?

Something about her eyes were sad, so very sad. Maybe she knew that he had missed his chance, missed the opportunity of taking advantage of this perfect, romantic moment. And so he reached out his hand to hers, hoping he might console her.

That broke the music's spell on her. She looked at him, mouth agape and questions in her eyes. He nodded and smiled, as if to confirm that 'yes, Riza Hawkeye, I am holding your hand of my own volition.'

His face had moved awfully close to hers. And she hadn't moved hers. Her cheeks were flushed red, blotches of skin still snow-pale. And he imagined snowflakes and frost glistening in her eyelashes above her wide eyes.

"Riza—I—"

Then the violin returned, triumphantly, and even more in love. His heart soared. Something swelled in his chest, a rising feeling of happiness that pushed the thought of ineffective words from his mind.

He pressed his lips to hers.

Her lips collided with his, the solid ground catching the impact of a meteor on a collision course. They were soft and warm and inviting. Her mouth tasted like fire, like the velvety flames of whiskey. Five years of pining had aged into a sweet, intoxicating flavor.

He no longer heard the off-kilter ticking of the grandfather clock from the hallway.

Time no longer existed.

He felt her hands at his neck, his hair. His right hand had found her cheek, and he was gently stroking the soft skin under her eye.

She leaned back, her face flushed and her mouth open. As if on instinct, she had crossed her arms modestly over her chest.

They stared at each other. Perhaps she, like him, was unsure of whether to acknowledge the passion that had flared between them. But how? And why would he, when he could instead snake an arm around her back and pull her just as close, so he could feel her warm chest against his, her soft lips on his?

And her lips were on his again. For another perfect infinite moment, he was lost in them, in their sweetness, the softness, and the feeling of her tongue pushing its way in between his lips. As he opened his mouth to deepen the kiss, he realized that her arms were around his neck, pulling him closer.

The music had grown tender now, the violin impossibly high as it sang its winter song of love.

Then the dance grew wild, like glaciers tumbling down a mountain, or a sudden spring bubbling. The love was out of control, it was untamed and fierce and utterly unknowable.

Was this love? He was terrified.

Then silence.

They pulled apart. Her eyes were wide. He was shaking. Something about the music and his torrent of passions shook him in such a way that he couldn't help but say something to break the silence. "It's my turn to choose the music."

"No, there's the second movement," she whispered.

"Out of how many movements, Riza?"

"There are three."

"Not now."

"But I love the beginning of the second. And the third is gorgeous as well. It's almost a polonaise."

"We need to do some warming up," Roy argued, taking both her frigid hands in his for a moment. "But I promise we can listen to the whole concerto tomorrow."

She nodded wordlessly. A large smile flashed across her face.

Would either of them acknowledge the kisses aloud? Knowing them, they might not. They could let this remain unspoken, unaddressed, just as they had let their feelings remain silent for years.

Or Roy could acknowledge it.

Yet he didn't. The fire crackled loudly. He stood up and removed the record from the gramophone.

"Well it sounds you dance a lot." Riza remarked. "Do you dance at the Academy?"

"Yeah, we have a few dances, normally one or two a semester, but only after our second year. But it's not usually music like this. Much more modern stuff with a small band. However, when I was younger I got roped into a few formal balls."

"How did you manage that?" she asked.

"Many of my sisters and the rest of my aunt's employees had school dances and society balls and they always needed more men. So they invited me. And I was never in a position to say no."

"Well I bet you must enjoy the Academy dances," she stated, and her voice wasn't insecure, merely curious. " The girls must be all over you."

"They're not worth it at all," he laughed to himself. "The effort of trying to find a girl to accompany you just for her to end up trying to make out with you behind the punch table is rarely worth it." He watched her mouth contort in a poorly-concealed flicker of jealousy. She was adorable. "And usually my sisters would end up trying to set me up with some of their friends, friends who I wasn't attracted to in the slightest. Well, here we go," he said, breaking off his story as the waltz began playing. "This is the Skater's Waltz. It's a real classic."

"I'm being serious. I don't dance well, Roy." Riza pleaded, hoping he'd let her sit down again. "I don't dance at all."

"Well, you don't need to dance well." Roy said with a smile. "The secret to good dancing is just moving your feet in vaguely the right direction in vaguely the right rhythm. And I've heard you play the piano, so I know that you've got rhythm."

Riza looked up at him doubtingly. He pulled her to her feet.

"Look, I'll tell you what. Half of the society ladies in Central only make it through their debutante balls because their skirts cover up whatever the hell they're trying to do with their feet. Which is usually stepping on my feet with their damn four-inch heels."

Riza tried to stifle her giggles until they burst out of her in an uncontrollable laugh. "I'd pay to see that in person."

He took her left hand in his before slipping his right around her waist. She inhaled audibly.

"Someday I'll take you to a ball like that."

"Really now? Not afraid I'd step on your toes?"

"You'd never be that mean to me. You'd be too enthralled by the concert hall, the music, everyone in their gowns, you in a white—" he cut off, blushing. "I mean, all the debutantes wear white. You'd be the darling of Central society."

He shook his head, trying to think off how to explain the waltz to an awkwardly swaying Riza.

"Ok, the waltz is just a box you make with your feet. And since I'm leading, you move your feet in the reverse of mine. And I take care of the rest. I move you around the dance floor and keep you from bumping into things and twirl you around every so often."

She nodded, her eyes too focused on her feet.

"You know why dancing is so amazing?" Roy continued, barely caring if Riza was listening. "It offers a chance for a man and women to talk with no one overhearing through the loud music, without the appearance of impropriety."

"Roy, I have no idea what you're saying and I have no idea what I'm doin—"

"Shh," he joked, "this is the best part. And you're doing fine."

"What do you mean, the best part? This whole piece sounds the same."

"If you let me, I'll tell you what the best part is."

"What, Roy?" she huffed. "If you tell me a single, legitimate reason to actually listen to this piece, I will shut—"

"This reason." And he brought her lips on hers. And again they were kissing, and the music was soaring in his heart. And this is what he had been waiting for in every ball, in every Academy dance. The chance to be holding her in his arms.

"I suppose that's a legitimate reason," Riza mumbled after she had pulled away from him.

Roy laughed. And he swept her into the dance again. The world tilted on an invisible axis and he imagined the kitchen filling with ballgowns and cellos and champagne flutes. The music swelled, with flutes and drums and sweeping violins.

He twirled Riza out toward the kitchen table. She smiled. And then he twirled her into his arms. The waltz ended. They stared at each other, just as they had after their kisses, breathless in each other's arms.

Again, they had the chance to acknowledge the kisses, the dance, the feelings buzzing inside them. But Roy didn't.

"I should probably go back to looking at my notes," he said softly. He couldn't even let her go. "I think I may be close to figuring out what exactly is encoded."

"And I should probably pull together that stew," she said, swaying on her feet. She pulled away and he wanted to grab her again, wanted to bring her into her arms and kiss her until the sun had risen. But he found the strength to return to his notes. He needed to. Because he only had one more day here.

As the evening stretched on, he found himself hunched over a stack of books at the table. He had been continuously muttering to himself about energy conservation and the problem of creating fire from nothing, and thankfully Riza didn't seem to mind.

As the hours passed, she frequently looked up from her sewing, which she had brought to the table. She would look up every few minutes with an expectant, longing look in her eyes. Roy did his best to ignore them, but each look jolted his insides about.

And it was very reluctantly that he had paced up the stairs to his room, deciding it better to wake up early in the morning for another attempt at the encryption. He couldn't even give her a hug goodnight. He knew that if he did, he'd never let her go. And he'd probably forfeit any chance of sleep.

He had only been in his room for a few minutes when he heard it. A knock on the door.

He opened it.

Riza, in her long pale robe, with some crocheted shawl around her shoulders, stood outside his door, holding a lamp. The flickering flames danced on her hair like a gilded halo. She was the image of a print from some old stage play, like a character from a show Madam had made him see when he was a boy.

"Riza! Uh, good evening." He stuttered the words evaporating from his mind. "Can I—do you nee—I mean—"

"You had mentioned that you wanted to play chess earlier." She raised a chessboard in her left arm. "And I couldn't sleep."

Do you want to…?" he trailed off, gesturing toward the stairway at the end of the hall. Hadn't she already struck him dumb earlier today?

"The fire in my room is quite warm." She smiled and turned around.

"Yeah, uhh, I'll be right over in a moment, just let me find my slippers," he called at her, but she had already disappeared back into the smiled to himself. There was something fittingly artistic about the way she kept bringing fire to him.

As he crossed the hallway, the grandfather clock downstairs rang out eleven.

Her door was ajar. He knocked on it, his hand trembling against the wood.

"You can come in, Roy."

He pushed the door open. He had only caught glimpses of her room when he had been an apprentice. It had always been off limits. But now that it was just the two of them, no limits remained.

The room was a bit larger than his, and more richly furnished. Or rather, much more well-maintained. To his left stood a large four poster bed covered in thick quilts. In front of him was a mahogany desk with a milk glass lamp atop it. Book shelves with colorfully-bound books surrounded a window seat. Several framed photographs perched on the thin strip of marble atop of the mantel. In front of the hearth that blazed to his left, a worn embroidered rug from the east reflected the fire's warm glow.

He felt had intruded on something. Maybe it was the room, with its pale pink walls decorated by watercolor paintings, that felt so feminine. Or maybe because, with the large bed and its embroidered hangings, it felt so personal. Then he realized, above these factors, it was the fact that it was Riza's room. Riza's.

He marveled at it all. Some poetry books sat neatly piled in front of the fire. He recognized some of the authors. So she was a romantic after all. And on the desk lay a stack of letters. He recognized his stationary. His stationary. And besides them was that portrait of him he had sent her. She had framed it.

"Are you alright, Roy?" she asked appearing as if from nowhere in front of the bed.

The moonlight from the window bathed one half of the room in silvery blue. The fire warmed the closer half with orange.

He blinked. "I'm—" Damn she was beautiful. And she cared for him. She even liked him. His heart pounded too hard for him to even speak. That feeling of fiery excitement blazed deep below his stomach. He swallowed. "I'm perfect," he said softly.

The chess board rested at the end of the quilt. The pieces lay jumbled besides it.

"Sit down," she said, patting the bed as she collapsed elegantly on to it. She pulled a pillow from behind her and hugged it to her chest. Where had her blushing shyness gone?

He approached her, kicking off his slippers before perching at the corner furthest from her. He leaned painfully back against the poster.

She observed the way he sat, ramrod straight and uncomfortable. "You can relax you know, I'm not going to bite."

"It's not you I'm worried about," he muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Roy answered quickly. He picked up a pawn and rolled it between his fingers. "Uh, black or white?"

"I'll take white."

"How could I forget my manners and even ask such a question?" He made a mock bow. "It's always ladies first."

She rolled her eyes before picking through the pieces for her pawns. "I'm sure you'll still beat me, no matter your feeble attempts at chivalry."

"What? Feeble attempts?" he cried as he placed his last piece on the board. "I've been nothing but a perfect gentleman to you since we met."

She laughed again. "Yes, feeble. But you can't deny you're going to win." She frowned and pursed her lips." So I guess I'll just have to come up with my own strategy to win."

"Oh yeah, and how are you going to do that?"

"I'll distract you," she said seriously, without a hint of flirting in her voice. She leaned forward to lay on her stomach, letting her legs peddle in the air. He watched the nightgown pool around her knees. "Your turn," she said with a self-aware smile. She had already moved a pawn.

He grimaced in surprise. Her strategy was already working. This would be an interesting game indeed.

The pile of discarded black pieces began to outpace those of the white.

"If I win this game, will you answer me a question?" Roy looked at her. One hand supported her chin, the other rested atop a bishop.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you want to ask me a question?"

"I have questions. That's all." She smiled at him. "And I think it's a fair prize."

He leaned over the chessboard, his face inches from hers. Two could play the distraction game. "And what do I get, if I win this game?"

"You tell me."

"Do I need to tell you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes."

"Fine." He crossed his arms and slouched back. "I guess I'll ask you a question then."

"You said you still sucked at chess!" Roy shouted some twenty minutes later as she checkmated his king with her queen. But she held his hand with the one that wasn't holding the queen.

"I've been reading up on strategy, but I haven't had any practice!" Riza said with an unusual defensive edge. "I wasn't sure if my theoretical knowledge would have any benefit on an actual game."

"Well your theoretical beats my four years of practice since the last time I played you." He let go of her hand and collapsed sideways onto the bed. "Alright, your question."

"As long as you don't laugh."

"Riza," he softened his eyes and lowered his voice. "I'm not going to laugh at you."

"I am—I'm not asking this out of some insecurity, but I'm still curious." She paused, one eye watching his expression, the other visibly churning with the thoughts in her head. She inhaled deeply.

"What would a military cadet who's brilliant and suave and handsome and dances with debutantes, want with me? I'm some four years younger than you, I live in the middle of nowhere, I'm plain and boring and lonely—"

He gasped as he startled upright."You think I'm handsome," Roy said, his eyes growing distracted as he stroked the non-existent stubble on his chin. She thought he was handsome.

"That's not the point!" she said, grabbing a pillow and swinging it threateningly. "Just. Answer. The. Damn. Question."

"Hey, hey, easy now," he said, throwing his arms up to protect himself. He had heard it all. "First, you're not young. The military considers you an adult at sixteen. You can enlist or join the academy at sixteen."

She dropped the pillow as she turned toward him, her eyes flashing with the shock of some realization.

"Second, I never want to hear you call yourself plain or boring ever again. You're beautiful." She smiled at that. "What's more than that, you're brilliant." He watched her smile widen. "Self-pity isn't an attractive look on you, and I'd hate to be the person to start making you doubt your worth. And you're worth far more than the tattoo on your back."

She opened her mouth but he cut her off with his fingers on her lips. "You won yourself an answered question, so you let me do a good job of this."

"Third, somehow, you attribute a lot of things to me, and I can't hope to live up to half of them. But even if I did, that doesn't prevent me from feeling anything for you. My city background doesn't stop me from falling in love with the countryside and the girl who keeps me from getting lost in it. And being surrounded by vapid debutantes and social-climbers at military balls doesn't mean I'm not searching for a girl as unlike all of them as I can find.

And, lastly, Riza Hawkeye," he inhaled deeply, choosing his words carefully. "I'm flattered that you think I'm suave and dashing, and for lack of a better word, such a social animal. But what makes you think I'm not lonely too?"

She was silent. Her mouth gaped for a minute before shaping into words.

"I don't really believe that."

"Why don't you?"

"Look at you," she stuttered. "You—you're—you're Roy Mustang!"

He laughed. "Yes I am. And sometimes that's its own curse." He looked at her. There was something innocent and childlike in her eyes, even despite the many hardships she had known. And there was that look of unbridled admiration that no other girl ever had shown him.

"I've grown up and lived as an orphan, mocked for the color of my hair and the ways my eyes slant. I've always stood out and always been the first person people pick on, whether they need a scapegoat or a laugh." The corners of her lips twitched downward. "I've had to work harder in classes and at work to prove myself. I've never once fit in anywhere in my life." He laughed to himself. "Madam Christmas says that it means I'm destined for great things. But sometimes I'd love to blend in for once."

"Roy," she breathed. Her eyes welled with tears. "I didn't even…" She reached out and held his hand, stroking it gently. And then she leaned forward and kissed him. And in the kiss was the sentiment of finding and being found, and a shared rejoicing in the realization that they weren't different. That maybe, they were the same.

That they were just two lonely children looking for someone who'd make them belong for the first time.

"So what was your question going to be?" Riza asked as they broke the kiss to lean into an embrace.

He pushed her away and held her at arm's length. "That's not fair! Your victory prize was asking one question! Not two."

"Well, I'm inviting you to ask your question now!"

"It doesn't matter now, you won and got your question."

"Roy."

"It was just going to be about…uh, alchemy."

"You're lying."

"What!"

"You never had a question at all. I think you were just going to look for a pretense. You were just going to find a way to take my shirt off again," she said, incisively, before realizing what she'd said aloud. Her face froze. "I—mean—"

He blushed, before laughing lightly at her reaction and her growing embarrassment.

"You're right, I was just looking for a pretense."

It was her turn to blush.

"A pretense to get close to you." He leaned into her, his lips collided with hers, and his arms were on hers as he collapsed atop her.

As they kissed, he found himself atop of her. His knee parted her legs and one of his hands was on her waist. She stared up at him and her look was both expectance and nervousness. Damn it. Had he pushed too far? In many ways she was still just a girl. And he was a man. And he was in her bed.

"Riza," he said breathlessly, pulling himself away her reluctantly. "I'm about to head back to the Academy. I can't promise you anything, I can't—"

She pulled her head closer and shut him up with a long kiss before pulling away. "Roy, what if I say that you are my choice? That this is my choice?"

He stopped, his heart pounding.

"I'm serious Roy. Meeting you may not have been my choice. Inheriting flame alchemy may not have been what I would have chosen for myself. But being here with you in this moment, this is—you are my choice."

Roy had known that this week would vanish as quickly as a dream. And Riza was no idiot either. He'd return to the Academy and they would soon be separated as once they had. There was no certainty of when they'd see each other next.

But both of their better judgements had died with Berthold Hawkeye. So he surrendered to the passions blazing within him and pressed a kiss to her neck.

Downstairs the grandfather clock rang out twelve.

As they entered the wreckages of adobe buildings that had once been an Ishvalan town but had since been fashioned into an Amestrian camp, a rusty bell clanked out the time.

Twelve chimes.

Noon.

The sand had once again left the hourglass, but time kept marching on, crunching everything underneath it's steady advance.

Roy saw a sniper rifle, wrapped and bound like a corpse, and suddenly his hearing vanished completely. The glove slipped from his numb right hand. Perhaps Hughes had misheard the name. Perhaps it was just a nickname. Perhaps it wasn't her and she was safe in the West and she didn't know.

He felt himself stumble.

"Roy, are you alright?" Hughes called through the haze that muffled his ears.

He felt himself collide with one of the people wrapped in the desert robes that looked like a coroner's shroud.

"Watch it idiot! If you bump into me agai—" the sergeant's anger melted as he realized who he collided with. "Major Mustang! I didn't realize that was you. Please forgive me for getting in your way."

They all feared him.

And who did Roy Mustang, destroyer of cities, killer of thousands, fear? A barely nineteen-year old girl who hadn't even graduated from the Academy.

And that fear consumed him. Every huddled, shuffling mass could be her. She would know he was here. Imminently so, at the very least. If she had fired the shot, she would have seen his face through her scope.

She knew.

And the stories, the titles, the myths and legends and lies, and worst of all, the truths, would have preceded him. She knew exactly what he had done.

"There she is." Hughes said, knocking Roy into a frenzy with a few taps of his hands.

His heart stopped. Or else the pocket watch beating against his chest had.

"Hey!" Hughes called, jogging ahead to the hooded figure that knelt before a fire. "Thanks for earlier. You were the one that fired that shot, right?"

She rose to her feet. And in the moment before her hood fell from her head, Roy prayed that it wasn't her. There was still a chance in this eternal-seeming moment.

He had dreamed this day. He had been envisioning their reunion for years. He had imagined it a thousand ways.

After he had finished in the Academy, he would walk past jewelry stores, cast a glance at the diamond rings through the windows. And with each sparkle came a future pleasure—the joyful tears, the embrace, the kiss. At certain hours, the sun turned the crust of sand dunes into diamonds. But he hadn't seen a jewelry store in nearly a year.

With each passing day in Ishval, with each corpse slaughtered, his excitement for the reunion dimmed. How could he face her, after he had promised her the shining future toward which he had taken her secrets, taken the flame? He couldn't lie to her. She was far too smart. He loved her far too much.

But how would he be able to tell her? With what words could he paint the blood-soaked gloves, the haze of burnt fat that followed him and filled cities, and the mountains of charcoal corpses, the children whose limbs would crumble and ooze congealed bile when moved?

In all of his imaginings he always failed to find the words, always imagined that he'd shoot himself before he'd reached her door. Because telling her the reality of his actions, watching the recognition and horror and disgust flash through her eyes would be the worst sight he had ever seen. Worse than all of Ishval.

And yet there was one thing worse.

She had seen it herself.

The hood fell.

The truth was revealed.

And Riza Hawkeye stood before him with the dull eyes of a murderer.


A/N:

I hope you all like long chapters! But I promise that shorter, more digestible bits are on their way.

This chapter took waaaaay longer than I hoped, but its been tripping me up since June when I first was inspired to write this fic. And this is the split version!
Originally I was going to publish the whole fic as a massive one-shot, but then I realized I'd never finish it if I didn't simply throw part of it out into the world. So, the bulk of this chapter was inspired just by the last few weeks. And it somehow ballooned to the length that I intended this entire fic to be.

I'll have a bit of a longer note with my next chapter, which should be out later this week since its already almost fully edited. In the meantime, enjoy fluffy Roy and Riza before the trauma happens.

As always, thanks for reading and please feel free to leave any constructive criticism or comments!